


Strength

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: “Why did you try to kill yourself?”The question slips out of Hank’s lips and weighs heavy between them in the dim light of his kitchen at two in the morning. Two glasses of whiskey sit on the table, the better part of a bottle warming their bones, and Connor stares at the amber liquid like it could take him somewhere else.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65





	Strength

“Why did you try to kill yourself?”

The question slips out of Hank’s lips and weighs heavy between them in the dim light of his kitchen at two in the morning. Two glasses of whiskey sit on the table, the better part of a bottle warming their bones, and Connor stares at the amber liquid like it could take him somewhere else.

“I don’t want this body anymore.”

When Hank found him only two hours ago, he was standing on the edge of a bridge on the highway, ready to take the plunge. Maybe the fall would kill him. Maybe it would be a truck. It would be fast, permanent relief, an end to all the turmoil in his soul.

He can see in Hank’s eyes that the other man understands, and hates that he understands this shared anguish between them. Hank prefers the bottle and the bullet. Connor can’t do anything in his own house, not while his family lives there. He knows this would hurt them too much as it is.

“You don’t like how you look?” Hank asks. He’s pushing and prodding, ready to pull every answer out of Connor that he can, even with the haze of alcohol on his brain. 

“You don’t know what I look like. Not really.”

“I see you every damn day. You look a sight better than I do.”

“No.” Connor shakes his head. He finishes his glass and pours himself another. “My body’s a lost cause. I can’t fix what’s wrong with it, Hank, and it’s my own fault. If it were a piece of clothing, I’d throw it out.” Tried to, at that. 

“Your perspective is skewed.”

“You perceive me exactly the way I’ve led you to.” He reaches for his tie, then realizes he left it at home after work. He undoes the buttons on his shirt slowly, one by one.

Hank grunts. “I understand shitty self-esteem. You don’t need to prove anything to me.”

Connor shrugs out of his shirt, then leans back, glass in hand.

Scars cover his arms and shoulders, some long since healed and some still tinged with red, with others still bright, fresh from earlier in the night. It leaves his skin uneven, tarnished, discolored--a tapestry of hurt he’s woven on his own body to reflect what he feels inside. It’s severe, and he knows that, and knows that Hank might not have believed what that even meant without seeing with his own eyes.

Two old scars under his pectorals. One on his lower belly from a C-section even longer ago. More scars on his torso from fights, and a few from cigarettes stubbed out on his skin, back from when he smoked.

It’s chilly at night, despite the summer. Goosebumps raise along his arms.

“None of this goes away,” Connor says. He sees the surprise in Hank’s eyes, his partner knowing Connor’s a complex person but not knowing just how much goes on in his head and his life. “I can’t start fresh with clean skin and a cisgender body. This can’t be salvaged. I can’t reverse what I’ve done and I can’t wish for the impossible.”

Hank’s gaze trails along the scars, soaking in the image. It’s a lot to take in. “It’s more than your scars that’s making you feel this bad. Did something happen?”

“You could say that.” Connor swirls the liquid in his glass. It’s only half-full, but he doesn’t remember his last sip. “I thought surgery would fix me.”

“Did it help?”

“Yeah, it helped.” He downs the rest of the glass and reaches for more, but the bottle’s no longer on the table. He leaves his glass empty. “You know how old my kids are?”

“You’ve got a toddler, and older twins. Why?”

“The twins are twenty-one.”

Hank’s eyebrows shoot up. “Twenty-one?”

“I started getting tutored in math when I was ten. Had the kids at twelve. Didn’t want an abortion, so.” Phantom hands ghost over him, making him shiver. The alcohol numbs the stress. “Fifteen when he got put away. I was too scared to tell. Mom thought I was a delinquent til then.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hank says, the disgust in his voice reflecting that which Connor feels. 

“That’s why I don’t work those cases. I can’t handle them.” He gestures to his arms. His legs are almost as bad. “I manage. I look stable. But I’m not always sure I’m doing any better than you are.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Maybe it should be,” Connor challenges. “Why are you such a hypocrite, Hank? Why do you play Russian roulette, yet drag me down from a bridge? Just because you’re a coward doesn’t mean I am.”

Hank scowls, but manages not to get dragged into that particular argument. “You still have your kids. They rely on you, and they love you, and you’ve got the fucking gift of being able to see them grow. What about Lily? She doesn’t have another parent, does she?”

His little girl, only three years old. Born healthy--until his ex shoved his way back into his life and beat her, injuring her soft skull and hurting her irreparably. It was a bad relationship after a string of bad relationships, and his heart aches with injustice and guilt. “No. He’s in prison, and he’ll never see her again. If he does, I’ll kill him.”

It’s either a testament to Hank’s drunkenness or nature that he doesn’t even blink at that. “Can’t do that if you’re not here.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“I get it. You feel like shit. You don’t like the way you look. You--”

“I don’t just want the scars gone, Hank.” His lip curls. "I want to stop feeling the hands that have touched me, and groped me, and all the other shit that they’ve done to me. I want a body that aligns with my gender, not something that makes me feel like an ugly duckling, some cross between what’s right and what’s wrong. I don’t want these memories anymore, giving me nightmares every other night, and I don’t want to look at my children and think of all the ways I’ve failed them. I put stress on my kids, my brothers, my mom--and if I take that away, maybe they can all breathe a sigh of relief, because I won’t cause them any more pain. Like ripping off a bandaid.” 

“We need you, Connor.”

Connor barks out a laugh, harsh and short. “God, don’t even try.”

“We need you.” Hank leans forward, looking at him so intensely that it makes him frown, losing a bit of his fire. “You’ve got a little girl who looks up to you and deserves to be raised by her father. Daughters who got where they are because you worked your ass off to raise them. Brothers who see you as a piece of the whole--I’ve seen you all together, and you’re seamless, like everything’s right when you’re together. You’ve got me, and we might spend most of our time working, but you keep me going. You’ve kept me from killing myself just by being in my goddamned life, made me see a spark in the world that I’d forgotten existed. Every life you touch is changed for the better.”

“It doesn’t change shit.”

“Not if you don’t let anyone in, it won’t.” Hank props his cheek up on the back of his hand. “You’ve buried your shit so deep we can’t even see the first hint of it.”

“What, you think you can help?”

“I think you should give us a chance.”

Connor doesn’t like the thought. He’s ready to clam back up after spilling so much to Hank, his partner and best friend, but he realizes Hank’s right. He hasn’t let anyone in. His brothers think he’s doing better, because he shuts them out whenever they try to pry past his bland reassurances that he’s fine. Amanda checks in on him as much as any parent would, always concerned, always feeling some guilt for what he’s been through. All his family knows about his struggles, but not how they’re impacting him now, or how bad he’s gotten. He hasn’t even had a therapist for a couple years, too busy raising his youngest daughter.

Instead, he admits, “I don’t want to.” 

“Acknowledging that is a step.” Hank reaches across the table, squeezing Connor’s hand. “You’ve made it this far. Do you think you can hold on long enough to try?”

Connor looks at their joined hands, feeling anchored with his grip. He wants everything to end, for the pain to go away… But maybe he can borrow some of Hank’s strength. Maybe, with a little bit of support, he could lift himself back up again.

“Okay,” he says, and he licks his dry lips. It might not be impossible after all. “Will you help me?”

“Without question.”

Tears well up in his eyes and a choked sob escapes from him. Hope flickers inside his heart, and it’s small, but it’s there.

He will make it through the night and face the morning, and maybe this time, he’ll find the strength to keep going.


End file.
